Chapter 3 - The First Private Sitting
By Tuesday afternoon, the diner looked like a different world.
Using a fraction of the stabilization funds, I had managed to hire a professional cleaning crew to scrub away three decades of grease, fix the leaking ice machine, and polish the old checkerboard tiles until they shone. But the real transformation was outside.
At exactly 2:00 PM, two black SUVs pulled up, blocking the street entirely. Two armed guards swept the diner, checking the kitchen, the restrooms, and even the basement storage room before giving a sharp nod to the doorway.
Mikhail Volkov walked in, holding Misha by the hand.
Misha looked much better today. He wore a neat blue blazer and khakis, his hair neatly combed, but his eyes lit up the moment he saw me standing behind the counter.
“Clara!” he called out, breaking away from his father’s grip and running over.
I couldn't help the smile that broke across my face. I crouched down to his eye level. “Hey there, kiddo. How’s the kitten?”
“Barnaby is fine,” Misha beamed, pulling a small plastic toy cat from his pocket. “Papa let me keep him in my room.”
Mikhail walked up behind his son, removing his leather gloves. He looked around the newly polished diner, his gray eyes catching the reflection of the new stainless-steel refrigerator.
“You clean up well,” Mikhail noted, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet room.
“I had a very aggressive investor twist my arm,” I retorted dryly, standing up and wiping my hands on my apron. “Though I noticed your legal team forgot to mention the part where my diner gets turned into an armed military checkpoint twice a week.”
“Security is non-negotiable,” Mikhail said flatly, pulling out a chair at a corner booth that had been designated as off-limits to the public. He sat down, gesturing for Misha to join him. “And you are welcome. The Sterling Group was planning to demolish this block by Friday. You owe me your livelihood.”
I gritted my teeth, marching over to the table with a notepad and pen. “I didn't ask for your charity, Volkov. You backed me into a corner.”
“I solved a problem,” Mikhail corrected calmly, his piercing eyes locking onto mine. “Just as you solved mine by feeding my son. We are even. For now.”
I opened my mouth to fire back a sharp retort, but Misha interrupted, pointing eagerly at the menu I had hastily scribbled on a chalkboard.
“Can I have the grilled cheese? And tomato soup?”
“You can have whatever you want, buddy,” I smiled softly, my anger evaporating the second I looked at the boy. I glanced at Mikhail, raising an eyebrow. “And for the feared boss of the Russian mob? Or do you only consume fear and raw steel?”
A faint, ghostly hint of a smile touched Mikhail’s lips. It was the first time I realized that beneath the terrifying armor of power and menace, there was a real man buried somewhere deep down.
May you like
“Coffee. Black,” Mikhail said quietly. “And whatever you recommend for lunch. Surprise me.”
As I turned back toward the kitchen, my heart was hammering against my ribs for an entirely different reason than before. Working with Mikhail Volkov in my orbit wasn't just dangerous—it was intoxicating. And I had a sinking feeling that the game had only just begun.
